One Bullet
by Bobbie23
Summary: One bullet is all it would take. PLEASE READ AUTHOR NOTE.


**Author Note – PLEASE READ – The title and summary are pretty self-explanatory, if you're in anyway uncomfortable with the subject matter don't read beyond this point. Otherwise, please proceed with an open mind.**

 **Disclaimer - I don't own, just borrowing**

One Bullet

One bullet is all it takes to end things.

One bullet is your downfall.

One of many.

You hold your gun in your hand, dangling it towards your feet. The weight is familiar and comforting as you stare out at the garden. It's the middle of the night and the empty bottles of beer and half-finished bottle of whisky rest at your feet. You aren't drunk, you haven't even touched the whisky you grabbed it out of habit. It would be a bad it idea to add that to the mix tonight. It's nights like these that you regret ever setting eyes on a gun. Nights full of memories and regrets, ones you don't want, ones which make you want to end everything. Unfortunately, the neighbourhood is silent. Or maybe it's not and you're too absorbed in your own reminiscing to realise.

One bullet is all it would take.

The first time you saw a gun you were five or six and it was lying on your kitchen table. Your father was cleaning it impatiently, muttering under his breath about something you couldn't quite hear or understand at that age. You realise now he always had one, he just never showed it to you before then, cleaned it after you went bed, just like you had with your children.

It shocked you at first, a weapon you had until that moment been confined to the realm of cops and robbers and television and movies was in your home. You knew what they could do. You remember staring, slack jawed at the massive weapon, your eyes bulging out of your head. He kept running a cloth over the barrel, polishing the metal till it was shiny. You remember catching your breath when he caught you staring at him. He stared right back and you turned on your heel and ran out the back door to find your brothers, grateful that he never came after you or made you feel his belt for spying on him.

After that he wore it on his hip, proud and prominent, an ever present threat between you. He held its' presence and your fascination over you. You remember shying away when your brother got a bb gun for his birthday a few months after that day in the kitchen and your father taught him to shoot tin cans in yard. You remember the smirk in his eyes as your brother took the gun from him, full of confidence as he pulled the trigger and hit the target. For a moment your father was full of pride but then he snatched the gun and held it out to you, demanding you take your go, your brother scowling at you from behind him because it was his birthday present and your father was finally taking an interest in him, he knew nothing of the mind game your father was playing. You stepped forward, unlike your brother you tried your hardest to control the tremor in your hands, you couldn't dare let him see it. You gripped the barrel in your hand and your father didn't relinquish his hold at first, staring your down, daring you.

You didn't want to prove him right, you didn't want to hear about it, so you tugged it from his grip and dropped your eyes from his, unwilling to let him taunt you further. Pushing the butt into your shoulder you looked through the sight. You uttered a quick prayer under your breath to help you hit a target. Your finger curled around the trigger as you concentrated on the tin cans a couple of feet away. Apparently you took too long as your father started cussing about what a disappointment you were, you knew he was only doing it to put you off. You closed your eyes to shut him and tightened your finger, blindly taking the shot. The loud bang ringing too loudly in your ears, echoing throughout the garden. You kept your eyes shut for several seconds as everything went quiet. It was only when your father let out a quiet huff and you heard him stomp back to the house, slamming the door behind him, that you opened your eyes and saw you had hit the middle can dead centre. You didn't relish the small victory for what it was, but it was dropped. He still wore his gun, but he no longer seemed to taunt you about it. You didn't so much get over it rather than push it to the back of your mind because you tried to avoid your father as much as you could after.

One bullet is all it would take to forget.

In joining the marines and the police force you gained confidence with using the weapon, learning to respect it and everything it could take from the world. You no longer shook when you held your service weapon and it quickly became part of your uniform. That doesn't mean you were completely comfortable with it, you saw the devastation one bullet could cause. You wish they were never needed, you always wanted another solution, always tried them first, but there were those few situations which you couldn't end without them.

One bullet is all it took to end your career.

You never expected it to. Ever.

You fired a lot of bullets in your career, too many for your liking, in the field and on the firing range. People accuse you of having a temper, your gun wasn't your outlet for it though, never was. Your fists were your method of choice for expressing your rage, a punch bag preferably but sometimes it would boil over and you would land two or three blows on a perp before someone dragged you away because they were too smug when you had nothing or they were too happy with themselves for whatever crime they committed. Whenever they got away with it because of a technicality or because they scared their victim too much to testify the injustice ate away at you to the point where your manifested in fantasies of killing them. Never with your gun though. Never.

One bullet is all it took to take her life.

There isn't a day that goes by that Jenna doesn't invade your thoughts. Your eyes fall shut and you grip the handle tighter, your index finger curling around the trigger instinctively. You've thought about that moment so many times it sometimes feels like it's on repeat in your mind. You remember her blood seeping through your fingers. Her eyes haunt your dreams when you're able to find sleep. It doesn't matter how many therapy sessions you attend you will always think you got away with murder. You're no better than those perps who were able to beat the system. Sometimes you visit her resting place and try to say sorry but you can't choke the words out.

It cost you more than your career. It cost you your friends and colleagues you've known for years. Your relationship with your children is strained and you're sure they only maintain contact because Kathy insists. Then there's your self-imposed penance, Olivia. You wish they would have indicted you. At least then you may have been able to look her in the eye again.

One bullet is all it took to change her life.

You've heard the rumours, read the newspaper articles detailing her second ordeal at the hands of Lewis and how he forced her to play Russian Roulette. Instinctively you believed her side of the story, and even if she didn't know you believed in her, she needed someone, anyone to because it seemed like the rest of the world didn't. It wasn't because you didn't believe she was capable, she was, but you knew she was telling the truth.

You wanted to reach out and make contact after they cleared her because you knew what it felt like to be under that kind of pressure. You didn't because you knew she wouldn't accept whatever olive branch you came up with. Being there would have caused more problems, you reason. You were of no use to her, not anymore. There are times you doubt you were of any use to her and sometimes you think you were a hindrance. You miss her desperately but you won't excuse yourself from your reparation. You only wish you didn't have to hurt her as well. That's what breaks you. You hate knowing she thinks you abandoned her. You hate yourself for it.

You thought about saying goodbye, honestly you did. You wanted to return her messages, you had a pen poised over a blank sheet of paper so many times. But you had no idea what to say or write, nothing was adequate. The lack of closure eats away at you and you're sure one day it'll be more than you can cope with.

One bullet is all it would take.

You think about it, more often than you should. And out of curiosity you lift your hand, curling your finger around the trigger. You close your eyes. Everything goes black and all you can hear is your breathing. The muzzle rests on the side of your temple. You smell the residual smell of gun powder, so familiar. Peace befalls you. You adjust your hand, tighten your finger, straighten your body, brace for the impact.

One bullet is all it would take.

You expel a breath which morphs into a scoff. Knowing your luck, you'd survive and that would cause more problems you don't know how to deal with. You've know people who've ate their gun and never forget the look on their child's face afterwards. The dead eyes, red rimmed and void of life. You can't do that to your children. You place the gun on the bench beside you, you can't do it. If you could you would've done it a long time ago.

But you'll always remember.

One bullet is all it would take.


End file.
